Marked
by Miss Mudblood
Summary: Series of one-shots featuring Ron and Hermione. Rated T for very mild language. Open for requests for new one-shots.
1. Marked

Hello there! I haven't published a fanfic in ages, but was reading over some of my older work and stumbled across this. It's not perfect by any means, but I really enjoyed writing it and exploring more of Ron's point-of-view. It's a short drabble, but let me know what you think! Reviews are absolutely lovely, whether they're positive or constructively critical.

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I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters or world mentioned. They belong to the ever-fabulous J.K. Rowling.

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Harry always said he was marked. Claimed for an eternity by dark magic. Of course he was referring to the scar that had made him so famous. I told him he was mental. It wasn't the scar, it was what it stood for. He knew I was right, yet for some reason felt that if the scar disappeared, so would everything else. That's all he wanted for the longest time.

I guess all of us have marks. Things that define us, you know? Whether these marks are physical, such as Harry's lightning-bolt scar, or if they're a mental standard set by an event in our lives. Like a brand or stamp, embossing our past and lessons we've learned. Kind of like how every scar has a story. Sounds cheesy, I know. But literally, if you ask a bloke where he got a weird scar on his arm, he'll have some sort of story about where he got it. Whether or not he tells you, however, is an entirely different matter. But I digress.

I really didn't think much of it after he initially said it so many years ago. Being marked by his scar. That is, until the famed Horcrux Hunt that led to the downfall of Voldemort.

There I was, sitting in that bloody tent. The same tent I'd been forced to live in for so long. Well, not forced. But it was still hell, even though my presence was voluntary. Harry was on watch, and I heard him rearrange himself in the chair just outside the tent. Hermione, in an action that was _quite_ unlike herself, was reading. I smirked, and she looked up at me.

"What?" she queried, one corner of her mouth turning slightly upwards as she attempted not to smile.

"Nothing," I answered simply, rolling up one sleeve absentmindedly. "You're just always reading."

"After all this time, do you really find that surprising?" she retorted, looking at me with an amused expression. She glanced down at my arm where I'd pushed up the sleeve. She put her book down gently and walked across the tent, sitting down in front of me. She reached out and touched my arm, tracing her fingers along the faint scars that remained there.

"What are you doing?" I asked of her, my arm tingling from her light touch.

"What are these from?" she inquired, though I could tell from her tone that she already knew. I decided that being blunt was the best approach.

"You. Those bloody canaries, remember?"

Her eyes met mine, and I saw the slight remorse there. She looked back down at the scars, still running her hand over them slowly.

"I'm sorry. I was just upset, and-" she stopped, seemingly unable to find the right words. "-I didn't mean to actually hurt you. Well. I take that back. I did, at the time. Now I understand that I was overreacting."

I put my hand over hers. She looked back at me once more. "I was a git. Don't apologize. We both did some mental things last year."

She smiled, and I returned the gesture. We sat in silence for a moment, until she went back to retrieve her book. She returned with it and situated herself next to me, keeping just enough distance between us so that we were not touching. I pondered for a while, thinking about the scars on my arm from her yellow canaries. I then decided that, like Harry's scar, these were my markings. They were what marked me as me. Ronald Bilius Weasley. They were what marked me as hers.


	2. Cheating

**Cheating**

The name may be off-putting, but it's not what you expect, I promise. Just a fluffy one-shot featuring the lovely Ron and Hermione. Set during their fifth year, before Umbridge goes_ completely _insane.

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I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with it. Just writing out the moments Jo Rowling left to our imagination.

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"Hermione?"

I glance up at the mention of my name. There he is, walking down from his dormitory with a box in his arms. His pyjamas are maroon-coloured, his most hated; yet I've always liked them. They're so... Ron. He sits down in the armchair across from mine and smirks at me, placing the box on the table. I look at him and raise one eyebrow expectantly. "Yes?"

"Why exactly are you reading a schoolbook on a Saturday night?" he queries, that goofy smirk still plastered on his face. I bite back a smile, but I'm sure he can see it in my eyes.

I answer playfully, "That is the point of school, you know. Learning things." He gasps in mock pain, but his broad grin gives him away.

"How dare you suggest that I don't learn? I'll have you know that I've already finished all my homework, and I've learned loads this term!"

I laugh, and he tries not to do the same. "I'm sure you have, Ron. So what are you doing inside? I thought you'd be out practicing for Quidditch."

He glances around the room and his smile slowly disappears. I mentally scold myself for ruining his good mood. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm rubbish anyway. Missing out on one night's practice won't do any harm."

"Oh, Ron, you're not rubbish. You just have a bad case of the nerves. I'm sure everything will be fine in time for the first match," I try to console him. Though he's no longer scowling, it doesn't seem to have any major effect. Then again, had I really expected it to? I quickly grasp at another topic, bent on keeping his mind away from his anxiety. My eyes land on the box precariously placed on the coffee table. "So what's in the box?"

Ron's eyes light up considerably, and his smile returns. I smile back and he answers timidly, "My chess set. I was wondering if you'd like to play with me." Ugh. Chess. It's the one thing, besides Quidditch and Divination, that I readily admit to being terrible at. I am about to come up with an excuse to avoid playing, something that requires going to the library immediately. I glance at him once more and stop myself. He just looks so eager. Plus, it is a good excuse to spend time with him.

I sigh playfully and answer, "Fine." He grins even more widely and starts setting up the board. I watch his hands place the pieces on the chessboard, and am momentarily distracted. His slightly calloused hands move with such precision, as if this were second nature. No pondering over where the pieces are supposed to go, like I would if I had to perform the same task. I stare at the prominent freckles on the back of his hand, and I wonder how warm and gentle his fingers would be intertwined with mine. I stop myself. I have _got_ to stop thinking things like that. He's my best friend, and as much as I sometimes wish otherwise, that's all we're going to be. I need to deal with that. There's no use in making things harder on myself.

Once the board is set up, he asks me, "Would you like to go first?"

"Not at all," I answer honestly, "By all means, you go first."

"Aw, is ickle Hermione afraid that I'll beat her?"

"You sound like Fred and George. And who says you'll beat me? Perhaps I've improved since our last match!" I retort, looking at him dangerously. I am competitive, after all.

He nods, rolling his eyes. I glare at him. Ron then turns the board around so that the white pieces are closest to him. He then moves his first piece, a pawn, forward two spaces. I smirk a little, proud that I can at least remember some of their names. I move my piece forward and the game continues. We're both silent, but every couple of moves I see him glancing at me. His look isn't playful, but intense. I try not to be distracted by those blue eyes that I've been captivated by since my third year at Hogwarts. When Ron's rook blasts my pawn off the board, he smiles triumphantly at me. I glare at him and focus on the board, determined not to let him distract me any more. The game lasts longer than usual, and I'm losing pretty terribly. I look at the board, eyes narrowed in concentration. I finally see something. Two moves I could easily make and take out Ron's king. I stare at it in disbelief, not believing that Ron could miss it. I glance at him, seeing if he's figured it out. Obviously he hasn't, since he's still surveying the board with a superior look. I try to keep my face emotionless, and move my knight to the proper space. "Check."

I swear, it looks like Ron's eyes are about to pop out of his head. His mouth is open, and he alternates between gaping at me and the board. He spends a long while trying to find a move to block his king, but no such luck. He glares at me, disbelief still evident, as he moves a piece that clearly will not help him. I grin innocently and move my piece to the king's space. "Checkmate."

The knight obliterates the king and the game is over. I've won my first game of chess against Ronald Weasley. He still looks shocked and I say innocently, "Something wrong, Ron?"

He looks at me, his expression suddenly unidentifiable. He stares for the longest time, surveying me. I can feel the blush rising on my cheeks and hope that the glow of the fire will be enough to mask it. I look into his blue eyes and realize how perfectly they complement his flaming red hair. The water that douses the fire. He moves in closer to me, and I feel my heart pound faster and faster. When we're mere inches away, he says, "You cheated."

I laugh, and we begin bickering over whether or not my chess moves were legal, but it's not the same. There's no malice or venom behind our words. The insults aren't really all that insulting. All of it is concreted by the constant smile on our faces. I think I can get used to this type of argument, which involves being a lot closer to one another than usual and getting to stare into those magnificent blue eyes of his.

When we head down to the Great Hall the following morning and sit next to each other for breakfast, we're still smiling and laughing with one another. I don't realize how out of the ordinary this is for the pair of us until Harry and everyone in our vicinity gawks at us. "Have a nice evening?" he asks, looking slightly bitter about something. I remind myself to ask him about it later.

I'm about to answer that it was fine when Ron pipes up, "Brilliant. How could I not enjoy playing wizard's chess?" He turns to me and queries, "Up for a rematch after breakfast?"

I smile and nod, "Afraid to let your good record get spoiled?"

He shakes his head, "Nah. But this time I won't go easy on you."

I roll my eyes with a smirk and return to my breakfast. I decide that perhaps chess isn't so bad, after all.

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Hope you enjoyed the read! Let me know what you think in a review, I'd be very grateful! Also, if you have an idea for another one-shot or a request, let me know and I'll see what I can do!


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